


Look At Me Now

by powerwithapen



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Backstory, Hale House Fire, M/M, almost, baby!Stiles, implied sterek, slow build-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-14
Updated: 2013-05-14
Packaged: 2017-12-11 21:26:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/803427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/powerwithapen/pseuds/powerwithapen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bless me Father, for I have sinned.” <br/>“Tell the Lord, son, and he shall forgive you,” the priest replied. How heartwarming, Stiles thought, a sly smile spreading across his lips. He might be asking for forgiveness, but it’s not like he really wanted it. Oh no, what he wanted – really wanted- was recognition. Recognition for his brilliance, to go down in history, be different. His father’s attention. “Tell me, son. What did you do?”<br/>Stiles smirked. Oh, what didn’t he do?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Look At Me Now

**Author's Note:**

> Again, a story I wrote for homework (based on the theme sin and guilt), but I added some stuff to it, which, okay, is about half of the story.

_I stand on the ashes of all I’ve ever loved,_

_Memories of a broken heart_

\- Crown The Empire

“Bless me Father, for I have sinned,” the man, or boy rather, muttered, shaking droplets of rain water out of his shaggy chocolate brown hair.

“Tell the Lord, son, and he shall forgive you,” the priest replied.

How heartwarming, Stiles thought, a sly smile spreading across his lips. He might be asking for forgiveness, but it’s not like he really wanted it. Oh no, what he wanted – really wanted- was recognition. Recognition for his brilliance, to go down in history, be different. His father’s attention. “Tell me, son. What did you do?”

Stiles smirked. Oh, what didn’t he do?

* * *

 

“There was another animal attack last night, be careful, okay?” his dad asked a month earlier, passing Stiles on the porch. His dad stopped asking where he was going a month after Stiles got his license, always getting the same answer either way ‘ _Scott’s, of course_.’ As if there was somewhere else to be. With the entire student body believing Stiles was a creep who hung out in cemeteries for fun and wrote entire papers on the history of the male circumcision during a test in Econ – honestly, not entirely uncalled for, but needless to say, his social life wasn’t entirely blooming.

But, a guy’s gotta do what a guy’s gotta do. While Stiles could only blame his ADD for the weird papers he would write, the hanging out in cemeteries was not as weird.

Sure, it was a hobby of sorts he had started at the mere age of ten, but in his defense, his mom had just passed away from cancer, and Stiles hadn’t had anyone to talk to it about. He had Scott, obviously. But the greatest pain Scott had ever felt was his neighbor’s dog tearing up his favorite stuffed animal. No offence to Scott, but he couldn’t exactly understand. Since then, things in the Stilinski household had been tense.

John, just having become the Sheriff, took on another set of shifts, and, despite his seemingly young age, Stiles knew that his dad took the shifts without a single complaint so he wouldn’t have to think. So he wouldn’t have to be around the house and all the painful memories. So he wouldn’t have to be around Stiles.

Stiles might be mature, but the Sheriff still wasn’t entirely comfortable with his ten-year-old being in charge of dinner, so they would get take out and eat in the car while John was on patrol. Amelia had left with a lot of things – secret recipes, memories, the Polish language she had promised to teach Stiles when he was just a little bit older – but, she had not taken Stiles, or John, or their health. That was all the two men had now: each other and their physical health, and they were going to cherish that. Stiles knew, though, knew that the slightly retreated look in his dad’s eyes was resentment. Resentment for Stiles, for Amelia dying, the unfairness of the world.

So, if Stiles noticed that the alcohol supply became heavier, that was nobody’s business but his. And if Stiles managed to water down the bottles without the Sheriff noticing, pulling the bottle away when he was too far into a case to notice, that was a small victory Stiles kept to himself.

Beacon Hills was a relatively quiet town at night, and usually nothing of real intrest happened. It was mostly the small cases of petty theft: a couple of teen steeling a bag of Skittles, or condoms, or something like that. Which Stiles though was entertaining and exciting at first – watching his dad handcuff a teen and toss him or her in the back of the cruiser – but as it happened the fifth time, both Stilinski men just looked bored. Old news.

 

It was on one of their infamous night patrols that John got a call of an actual ongoing event: a house fire.

Stiles, at ten and a half, was still eerily fascinated with fire and firemen, still wanted to be a fireman. Right after being a doctor, so he could save people. People like his mom. What he didn’t realize, however, was that it was not only the scene of a fire. The flames licking up at the sides of the massive – capitol M A S S I V E and all – house, were not only swallowing the building itself, but the people inside. It wasn’t until he spotted a teenaged boy sitting by himself crying that Stiles realized it had to be someone’s house.

Stiles couldn’t remember exactly what was said, but the two boys bonded over losing their mothers, despite the age difference.

Derek, the other boy, had not only lost his mom, but his dad, two younger sisters and an older brother, his aunt and three cousins, and, as they were sitting there talking, his uncle was being transported to the hospital with severe burns. If Stiles had it bad, Derek had it terrible. The guy’s only family left was his older sister Laura and an aunt and uncle in New York he apparently had only met once or twice, who he could vaguely remember.

Stiles was fascinated with the other boy – the way he was so much bigger than Stiles and one of those slightly intimidating, kind of muscular, probably a jock, type of guy. Yet, Derek never pushed him away, didn’t seem to care that the boy was obviously younger than him. Apparently that didn’t mean Stiles couldn’t be his friend. And Stiles loved that, loved the way Derek would actually talk to him like he was an equal, not a stupid child, like his mom’s friends used to. But most of all, Stiles loved the soft feel of Derek’s BHHS Lacrosse sweatshirt.

“Are you cold?” Derek suddenly asked.

The two boys sitting on the burnt out back porch after the fire was under control, simply watching the starry night. Flashing lights of blue and read were gleaming somewhere behind them, and both boys could hear the murmur of distant voices and doors slamming and people running around. Other than that the night was oddly silent, like the entire forest held their breath in respect to the recent tragedy.

“A little bit, I guess,” Stiles said with a shrug. He hadn’t even noticed the goose bumps crawling up the skin of his arms, but now that Derek pointed it out, Stiles was a little cold.

“Here,” Derek said shrugging off his hoodie and handed it to Stiles, “you can keep it.”

“Weally?” Stiles asked, admiration shining brightly in his eyes, although mentally he was cursing himself for sounding so little. But it’s not like he could magically grow his teeth out, and he was just ten – and a half – after all. 

"Yeah, really,” Derek said. But he didn’t sound exasperated, like most other people did when exposed to Stiles for too long. _Except for Scott, ‘cause Scoot is awesome_ , Stiles thought. Derek even gave Stiles a small smile, not a fully happy one, but Stiles didn’t blame him; he had just lost his family after all. A moment of silence passed before Derek spoke again.

“It’s all my fault,” he whispered so softly Stiles thought he wouldn’t have heard him if he wasn’t sitting so close to the older boy.

“What?” Stiles asked softly.

“My family. It’s all my fault they’re dead.”

“I might not be a cool high school kid like you,” Stiles said, admiration evident in his voice, “but I do know that it’s not true. The fire was an accident, right? So it’s not your fault, unless you were playing with matches or something. But you weren’t even here until the ambulance and my dad’s friends were here, right? So that wouldn’t even make sense.”

“No, I wasn’t,” Derek said, looking at his shoes, unable to hold back a tiny smile. The kid was amazing. So young, but so talkative.

“See? Then it’s not your fault, and trust me, blaming yourself is not gonna do anything but drive you crazy.” Silence fell between the two boys. Derek wanted to take the boy’s words to heart, follow his advice. But Stiles didn’t know. Didn’t even really know what Derek was going through. There was way more to the story than what Stiles knew, more than anyone knew.

 

 

“Daddy, daddy!” Stiles exclaimed as he got to the police cruiser. “Can I start playing Lacrosse?”

The Sheriff glanced at his son, almost drowning in what could only be the Hale boy’s sweatshirt. He might be the Sheriff, but he wasn’t heartless, and John hadn’t seen his son this excited since before Amelia died. Who was he to deny his son some joy?

“Sure, Stiles,” he laughed.

“YES!” Stiles exclaimed and nearly tackled him to the ground with a hug. “Thank you!”

“Okay, Stiles, you can let me go now,” John wheezed, patting his son’s shoulder.

“Oh, sorry, daddy,” Stiles said sheepishly.

“It’s fine, son,” John said, and with that, the tension that had seemed to linger between them for over a year disappeared.

 

 

Stiles got good at lacrosse that summer - really good. For a ten – or soon to be 11 – year old, at the very least.

Stiles hadn’t gotten to talk too much with Derek over the summer, having been too consumed in practicing lacrosse to really do much else besides that and play with Scott. Besides, Derek was in high school, it’s not like he would want to be seen around stiles too much either. He had an image to protect, even though Derek had never asked him to back off, Stiles got that.

That didn’t keep Stiles from wearing Derek’s shirt until it no longer smelled of him, though. Stiles wore it so much, in fact, that the Sheriff didn’t even blink anymore whenever he found the sweater with “24 HALE” written across the back in big, bold letters. It was only for inside wear though; Stiles never once wore the sweatshirt outside of the house.

But, as the summer was coming to an end, Stiles wanted to see his friend again, excited to show Derek his new skills. Stiles looked high and low throughout the entire town, but couldn’t find Derek. Until eventually, he headed for the burnt out shell of what was once a home, and found Derek on the back porch where they sat and talked the night of the fire. Derek was hunched over, his head buried in his hands and the sight alone broke Stiles’ heart.

“Derek?” Stiles tried softly. The boy turned around slowly, as if already expecting Stiles.

A small smile appeared on his face, and Derek greeted him with a simple, “hey Stiles.”

But there was a settling burden behind his eyes, and Stiles wished he could just take it all away, take away all of Derek’s pain. Because if there was one thing stiles knew it was that losing a parent hurt. Hurt so bad that it took your breath away, left you curled up in bed crying until you couldn’t cry anymore and you just felt so tired and heavy and broken that you couldn’t even do anything else. it’s a pain that consumes you, but Derek… he had to move on, get on with his life and be with his sister and take care of her the same way she had to take care of him. Derek was almost seventeen, and Laura getting closer to nineteen. They had a life waiting for them.

So, Stiles just did what he could, the only thing he thought could help, even if it was just a band aid on a bullet wound, a festering wound. He leaned in, wrapped his arms around the older boy, and just stayed there, pressed to his chest. Stiles could feel the slow and gentle thudthudthud of Derek’s heart beat could feel the slight press of his pulse against his forehead, and smell his faint cologne where his nose met Derek’s neck. Then Derek’s warm arms wrapped around him and everything seemed right in the world. They were just two boys with not much in common but their pain. And lacrosse. And stiles really wanted to show Derek his new skills, but something told him that now wasn’t the time for play.

Derek didn’t say it, exactly – of course he didn’t – but Stiles got the feeling that he was upset. So he pushed lacrosse aside for now, and just held Derek, cuddled into his warmth, as much for himself as for Derek. His chest was just a really nice place, okay?

They didn’t really do anything that day, or say much for that matter. The two of them had just sort of settled into a common acceptance of just being there for each other, no words required or even necessary.

 

Stiles never did get to show Derek his new skills, though. It was only a few days later, at the beginning of the school year, that the Sheriff came home telling Stiles that the Beacon Hills population had once again decreased. Laura was off to college, something about a fashion school in New York, and Derek had no choice but to come with her. So. Derek was now on the other side of the country. Awesome.

So, if Stiles started wearing the shirt Derek gave him to bed every night – except for when it needed a wash – wishing it was Derek’s arms around his body, and not just his old sweater. Well, that was nobody’s business but his.

 

With Derek gone, so was the ease that had come down between the Stilinski men. The tension was back, and so, not too long after, John started drinking. A lot.

And Stiles couldn’t help but to feel as if the drinking was partly his fault, like he wasn’t good enough for his dad, like his dad blamed Stiles for Amelia’s death.

It was a terrible feeling, but Stiles but on a smile pretended like he wasn’t hurting at all.

And so he got good at it, pretending like nothing was wrong - simply ignoring the problem until it eventually went away. That’s what he did with his stupid crush on Derek Hale.

Stiles snorted as he was standing in front of his closet the summer before his freshman year, folding the BHHS lacrosse team he had been gifted once upon a time when he was young and naïve. A time when he hadn’t been able to recognize his fascination for what it was: a stupid crush. Derek Hale. _Like_ that _would ever happen_ , he thought as he stuffed the shirt into the back of his closet, buried beneath old comics and toys and things he was probably never going to look at again.

At least not until he was old and married to Lydia Martin, not that marrying Lydia Martin was much more likely than him ever dating Derek Hale, or possibly moving out for college.

Being over his crush on Derek Hale didn’t mean that he wasn’t still in love with lacrosse, though, because he definitely was. Stiles was also definitely going to force Scott to try out for the Beacon Hills High lacrosse team with him. Because while lacrosse might be great, he was not about to be bound to the bench alone.

They both made the team, and as predicted, they both made it as far as to the bench.

And, being asked to pick their number, Stiles picked 24 without hesitation.

Okay, so maybe he wasn’t entirely over Derek. Because, well, his face.

The guy was attractive. Or maybe that was just his innocent ten year old eyes? It’s not like Stiles would know. He hadn’t seen the guys in four years.

 

 

If his freshman year was anything to go by, his high school career would be rough.

His childhood oddities seemed to haunt him in high school.

Okay, yeah, sitting in the grave yard all the time when he was ten could be viewed as odd, he got that. But he still felt the odd looks sent his way were a little uncalled for.

Freshman year was nothing compared to sophomore year, though. It was rough even before it started.

In retrospect, that probably was Stiles’ fault. It was his idea to go hunting for the other half of a dead body in the Preserve. Not too far from the Hale house. The day before their sophomore year.

Great idea right there, Stiles.

They got busted before they could even find it, or well, Stiles got busted by his dad, leaving Scott to search the woods alone, finding the body on his own. The bastard.

Of course, the guy managed to drop his inhaler and get bitten by a werewolf, so yeah, that was fun. Why was Stiles always missing out on the fun?!

Searching for Scott’s inhaler the next day, Stiles was a little shocked – to put it lightly – to see the guy he had cried with, bonding over their lost ones, in the middle of the woods.

While Derek might have been fairly muscular at 16, it was nothing compared to the amount of muscle the guy was sporting at 22. It was easy to see that it was the same guy, only this time he was sporting a five o’clock shade, a ragged looking leather jacket, and scowl as if he was personally offended by the existence of the entire world.

Admittedly, Stiles thought he had all reason to, before Derek chased the two boys off of Derek’s “property” that was apparently a massive chunk of the Beacon Hills Preserve. From that point on, Stiles had decided Derek was just a douche who hated the world.

A very attractive douche who hated the world.

Yeah, not really over that crush.

 

When Stiles and Scott eventually found the other half of the body, buried in Derek Hale’s backyard, things were looking bad for Derek, but the guy was definitely not guilty.

He might look the part of a killer, but there was no way in hell he would have killed his last remaining family member, his sister Laura Hale.

 

“Oh my god, dude! You gotta give a guy some warning,” Stiles exclaimed, accidentally tossing his phone to the other side of the room and clasped at his heart, the first time Derek crawled through the window. While he was in the room already.

“What if I was enjoying some private time when you showed up?” Stiles questioned while moving to get his phone from the floor.

“You still have that shirt?”

“Huh?” stiles asked, glancing down at his shirt, and oh my god, of fucking course he had to be wearing the shirt Derek had given him. “Oh wow, that’s embarrassing.”

“No, I like it. Reminds me of the little kid who comforted me when I had no one else left. It’s nice,” Derek assured, settling down on Stiles’ bed.

“The kid you just left without even saying bye to?”

“Yeah,” Derek said sheepishly, scratching at the back of his neck, “sorry ‘bout that.”

“I would say it’s fine, but it really isn’t. it was really upsetting for an 11 year old to find out that one of his friends had moved away without even saying anything.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek whispered. “I really am.”

 

 

It was when Stiles had gotten himself tangled in Beacon Hills’ best kept secret – werewolves weren’t just a myth – that he first committed his sin.

When werewolves had become a regular part of his life and not just a fascinating myth, when he had to sneak in loads of laundry whenever his dad was working, not because he was an average teenage boy, but because he had an entire load of blood stained shirts and cuts and bruises to match.

It was when death was a normal part of his life that something within Stiles had snapped.

 

After ten months of watching his friends almost getting mauled to death that Stiles killed for the first time – not contributed for the greater good, like he had with bringing down creepy uncle Peter. The guy that had offered Stiles to become a werewolf, had bitten Scott and made him the star of the lacrosse team and was just generally creepy, and had brutally murdered at least ten people.

And seriously, how dense were the people in his town that they didn’t realize something was up when a good 25-30 in the town had been killed? As opposed to the, what, ten, that had been killed in the Hale house fire as the most up until then.

Stiles had killed during a battle against some ridiculously strong and fast Strigoi, a kind of purely evil vampires.

Briefly, Stiles wondered how that had even become his life. How it was even normal for him to battle supernatural creatures. How it was his life to watch the life fade from his victim’s eyes.

 

Maybe he should have realized something was wrong when he found himself enjoying that part, watching someone die at his hands, feeling the warm blood seep through his fingers, watch it drop to the floor or watch it spread.

He definitely should have when his victims were no longer part of a battle, or even evil supernatural creatures, and rather mere humans.

But Stiles had been through a lot of crap, had seen the world twisting into something dark and sinister where nothing was too terrifying to be real anymore – nothing was too farfetched.

He watched his own mother die, saw his own dad slowly begin to despise him because clearly, all he could see anymore was the ghost of his love. And Stiles got that. He really did. It didn’t change how much it sucked, though.

When it became a game, a test of his intelligence and attentive skills – that’s probably when Stiles should have stopped it, the killing, but he didn’t, and he wouldn’t.

It was too much of a power high.

He had killed almost 50 people, all on his own.

His friends didn’t suspect a thing, even with their freaky werewolf sense of smell, the kind that could sniff out what he had for breakfast that morning.

He lived with beacon Hills’ finest, the chief of the police – the Sheriff – and he didn’t suspect a thing either. Stiles would know. His dad was keeping him updated on the case, and Stiles was purposefully steering him in the wrong direction whenever he got a little close.

Most of the time, though, Stiles wouldn’t even have to do anything, because, honestly, who would blame the Sheriff’s innocent kid to be their serial killer?

No one ever suspects the people closest to them to be a killer.

But it was time to change that. It was time for Stiles to get the recognition he deserved.

* * *

 

 

“You see,” Stiles said maybe a bit too cheerfully for someone confessing their deepest, darkest secret, the worst sin anyone could think of.

Well, almost at least.

“The last 50 or so animal attacks – you’ve heard about those, right?” Stiles asked curiously, maybe edging towards a little proud.

“Yes? Mountain Lions,” the priest commented, sounding confused.

“What does that have to do with anything?” Stiles asked him, as if taking the words straight from the priest's mouth. “Ah, well you see, they weren’t animal attacks at all. Sure, they were made to look like animal attacks. Carefully planned murders each and every single one, but all done by a human.”

“H-how do you even know all of this?” Ah, that was utter terror in his voice. Stiles smiled to himself, satisfied.

“Now isn’t that obvious?” Stiles asked, “I was the one who killed them,” Stiles whispered, just loud enough for the priest to hear him.

 

The police arrived a bit faster than Stiles had honestly expected them to. His dad, however, was at the lead, one of the first officers to arrive. Just like expected.

“Stiles?” John asked surprised, “you know, I’m getting really tired of finding you at my crime scenes,” he said. Stiles flashed his dad a wicked smile, slightly proud.

“I’m surprised you never caught on actually. Not very good detective work there, dad,” Stiles teased, watching his dad’s jaw going slack as he obviously caught on to what Stiles was saying.

“How ‘bout that, dad? Your good for nothing son killed fifty people without getting caught, without the police even suspecting him. I kept it up for months!” Stiles proclaimed proudly as two other officers handcuffed Stiles and guided him to the back of one of the cruisers.

John watched in complete shock as his son, his own flesh and blood, was shoved into the back of a police cruiser, likely to spend the rest of his life in jail – or a psych ward, at best.

“Where did I go wrong?” he muttered, looking up at the sky, as if somehow God or Amelia, or _someone_ , would answer, as a sickening feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He had failed as a Sheriff and as a father. He had failed Amelia.

John’s stomach lurched, twisted.

He had lost Amelia, and now Stiles; nothing ever went right in his life anymore.

 

So, if he went home that day, opening a new bottle of Jack, downing the whole thing and passed out never to wake up again.

Well, that was nobody’s business but his.


End file.
